


In Sickness, In Health

by KnightOn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, My First Fanfic, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, Sickfic, how is that even a real tag, john and mary are basically parents to sherlock, on AO3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightOn/pseuds/KnightOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets sick when he lets his heart lead his head.<br/>(contains spoilers for season 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! this is the very first fic I'm posting to AO3. So pleased to be part of this site!  
> This fic is was not beta read. I've been working on other chapters and this first part was staring me in the face so I thought I'd just post it to get it out of my mind for a while. Critiques are welcome!, of course!

John had been there the whole time. _The whole damn time_. Sherlock had been running around in the rain searching desperately for him, thinking he had driven him away in anger and into danger from a simple little prank Mary helped him pull. But no, he had been here, sitting with Mary in Sherlock's flat, completely cool headed. Or he would be cool headed if he wasn't completely bent over his laptop, combing through mommy blogs and online baby help sites, Sherlock noted. Mary was in the kitchen, having some tea. Of course she knew what he had thrown himself into. 

Sherlock knew he couldn't trust her completely, no matter what she confessed. Yet somehow, even she hadn't noticed he had come home.

Instead of immediately going to John, Sherlock stood in the doorway, slumped against the frame. His eyes were fluttering and his body felt hot, too hot, so hot...

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" He heard Mary exclaim, forcing him to open his eyes. She was near him in seconds, which honestly made him tense up. One hand was on his shoulder and the other the small of his back, helping him walk all the way into the living room. John sprang up and watched as Mary settled Sherlock gently on the couch. Sherlock curled into himself, turning on his side, his back to the couple.

"Mary, get back. Stay away from him." John urged as he advanced on Sherlock. Mary uttered a chuckle.

"Why, John? I can help-"

"No, no, I mean, yes, you can but it's just-you, and, well-the baby, and-" Mary sighed. She walked calmly over to John and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"Oh, John, stop babbling, I'm fine! Don't worry about me. Our firstborn is the one who needs help." She said, gesturing to Sherlock. John breathed and nodded. "I'll be in the kitchen, alright?"

Of course she didn't just plan to ignore the sick detective. Once in the kitchen she picked up her mug again, stirred in a bit more sugar, and stood nearby to watch John work.

Now John felt he could go into doctor mode completely. Feeling a bit panicky, he sat down on the table in front of Sherlock, feeling a little silly doing so but if Sherlock could climb on it, why couldn't he sit on it? He began to turn Sherlock over gently.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, answer me." Sherlock's head lolled over and his glassy eyes opened just enough to catch John's hidden look of concern. He smiled at him, maybe a little too big, reassuring to John that yes, he was awake and yes, he could hear him. The back of John's hand pressed against his forehead, pushing his damp curls out of the way. Almost immediately he pulled his hand back, shaking it.

"Christ, Sherlock..." He muttered. The man might as well have been on fire for real, he was so warm. John huffed and to some protest from Sherlock, he sat his friend up and removed his trademark coat, folding it over on the table where John sat, knowing he'd be in for it if he just carelessly tossed it aside. He took his blazer off as well. He piled some pillows behind Sherlock and rested him against them.

"Just sit still for a minute, ok Sherlock? I need to get some things." 

John retreated into the kitchen for supplies. Digging around in the bottom cabinets, Mary stood behind him, mug still in hand. "How is he?"

"Not good, I think. I don't want to diagnose him before I have all the information but I think he might have the flu." John pulled out an emergency medical bag; he had kept it tucked away ever since he discovered all the rather dangerous experiments Sherlock conducted all over the flat. "I can't even imagine how this is going to go. I might need to bring him to a hospital but since last time..."

"I know. Just do everything you can, I guess." Mary sighed, pressing another kiss to John's lips. "I'm here if you need something."

John smiled softly, standing and stepping quickly back over to Sherlock, who again had turned his back to the world, pulling himself closer and closer. He had already kicked off his shoes and pulled his socks off himself. John huffed and sat back down on the edge of the table, pulling a small grabage can along with him.

"Sherlock." He drawled, a hint of anger already forming in his voice. Sherlock moaned and turned himself back towards John, watching him rummage through his bag for what he needed. He produced an electric thermometer, pulled a plastic cover over it, and reset it. 

"John..." Sherlock croaked. "Please..." He reached out and grabbed John's sweater, weakly tugging at it. His eyes dragged around the room. John watched, realizing what was happening. Sherlock was trying as hard as he could to make a deduction or two, but his mind was so clouded he simply couldn't. "My head..." he muttered, tightening the already weak grip on John's clothing. John offered him a smile.

"C'mon, Sherlock, just relax. Everything is going to be fine." He helped Sherlock sit back up against the stacked pillows, but he couldn't help himself from slumping down again. John gave up trying to get him to sit up completely. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's chin and lifted it up. He grabbed the thermometer off the table again. "Open your mouth, Sherlock. Keep this under your tounge. Just hold it there for a minute." Sherlock complied. John couldn't help but notice the shivering coming from Sherlock, despite how hot he still felt. He turned and grabbed a spare pen on the table, scribbling his findings on a stickie pad.

_Chills, exhaustion, runny nose, headaches..._

The thermometer beeped and John returned to face Sherlock. He pulled the thermometer out. John cursed under his breath.

"38..." He looked back to Sherlock, only to find him looking at him with droopy, glossy eyes. Staring at him. John ran a hand through his friend's curls, pushing them aside a little. He tossed the plastic covering of the thermometer into the garbage and pulled a small flashlight out from the bag, leaning closer to Sherlock. So close that it even made Sherlock, in his weakened state, uncomfortably aware of the closeness. Sherlock pushed himself further into the stacked up pillows, trying to avoid John. John furrowed his brow.

"Sherlock, don't be a child. Open up. Stick your tounge out." Sherlock shot him a look and did as he was told. Again John wrapped his fingers around his chin to hold him in place, peering down his throat. Despite the chills Sherlock was definately hot, heat resonating from his body. John also noticed he breathing a little heavily with his mouth open like this. John pulled away from Sherlock, releasing his chin. Dropping the flashlight back into the bag, John continued to note his findings.

_redness of the throat..._

"Just one more thing for now. Sit up a bit more." Sherlock groaned, agitated at how all these simple movements had become so difficult, and how John would not stop coddling him. Surely if he had some time to himself he could work this out on his own. Yet he still did it, if only so John would finish fast enough to leave him alone. As soon as Sherlock saw him pull out his stethoscope, he untucked his dress shirt - partly because he knew that it would give John easier access to his chest and back, but mostly because he did not want to remove his shirt. A list of reasons why tumbled through his head.

Sure enough John stuck the buds of the stethoscope in his ears and pressed the diaphragm to the detective's chest, alternating between slipping through the buttons of his dress shirt and underneath the untucked clothing. 

"Just breath normal." John instructed. Sherlock dipped his head and breathed, almost perfectly. John couldn't help but ghost his hand over Sherlock's bullet wound in the process. Just the airy feeling of John's fingers close to the wound made Sherlock's shoulder's tense up. He hated it so. Trying to keep his mind off it, John noted the hitches in Sherlock's breath. He moved to his back, right underneath his shirt. He didn't pay any attention to Sherlock's breathing patterns. The first thing he noticed were raised, hot lines on his back, causing a hindrance in his breath. It was a pained gasp that escaped his friend's lips. Sherlock shook a little too. Instead of pushing further John pulled away, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck. He knew Sherlock was dazed but he could still become curious, so John decided to distract him instead. His friend slumped back down into the pillows.

"Sherlock, do you feel any nausea? Dizziness? What about muscle tension?"

"Yes..." Sherlock groaned, shifting his head to one side.

"Sherlock. That's not a proper answer." Sherlock sighed in response.

"John. I'm exhausted. If I could just-" Sherlock cut himself off, lurching into an upright sitting position. John sat back in suprise, and with a little trepadation.

"Is everything-?"

Sherlock jumped up from the couch and darted away, pushing John slightly as he went. John and Mary's eyes simply followed in his hurried pace. The bathroom door slammed, disrupting the tense quiet.

_vomiting._

"Yup." John said flatly, standing up from the table. He cleaned up the area a bit, re-packing his bag. "Flu. Definately the flu." Mary walked into the living room.

"And here I thought Sherlock Holmes could work his way through anything." She said with a smile. John grabbed his coat off his chair.

"Well, I think he's had worse. I need to run out and get some things." John turned his head in to direction of the bathroom. "I'm going out to get you some things, I'll be back in a minute, alright?"  John called to his friend. He turned back to Mary.

"Want to come with?"

"Oh, I get to do something, do I?" John only smiled. They locked fingers as they left. "By the way, what do you think about 'Clara'?"

"Mmm, I don't know. That sounds familiar somehow..."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock waited for the sound of the front door slamming shut.

Exhausted and sickly as he was, he made a quick mental list of what he needed to do before John got back. First he flushed the toilet, getting rid of that disgusting mess even he was unsure of how it could have possibly come out of him. He pulled the shower curtains aside and began filling up the tub. For a moment, completely distracted (as he has noticed he tends to get when sick, which is so very rare), he crouched down by the faucet, entranced by the flow of the lukewarm water. It calmed his mind. Finally he had something simple to focus on, and he was able to draw so much information out of the stream. The speed at which it flowed, the sounds of the water hitting the tub below and filling it, the hissing from the faucet that told him how hot the water was getting.

Satisfied with the minor clearing of his otherwise foggy and cluttered mind, Sherlock stood and undressed himself. As he bent down to remove his pants and stood back up, he caught his reflection in the mirror, only stretching as far down as his abdomen. And he despised it. The unnatural paleness of his skin, the hollow look in his eyes, the redness of his nose. But the scars, of course, stood out compared to everything. The bullet wound just below his right breast, only about four milimeters, but the size didn't matter, really. He was now forever scarred by the woman he thought he could trust and always had his doubt about but it didn't matter because John loved her so much and was willing to forgive her for everything because all she wanted was some peace in her life but really that can't be all can it it can't all be that simple who is she really he had to know he just had to-

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Keeping his mind clear was key. Though when he opened his eyes it was still hard to avoid the minor cuts and the large scars on his chest and shoulders. It was even worse on his back.

His right hand began to shake. 

Another deep sigh and Sherlock turned back around to face the tub, just in time to shut the water off before the tub became too full. Carefully, without making too much noise, he lowered himself into the water. With a deep sigh he let himself relax, back up against the tub, scars throbbing in protest. He ignored his body, instead settling his arms up on each side of the tub.

He looked up at the ceiling and knew John knew about his scars.

Certainly, his day was not getting any better. First he pranks John, and foolishly believing he had driven him away in anger and straight into potential danger with Moriarty, ran out in the pooring winter rain to find him, and thus got himself sick, and inadvertently revealed to John the pain and suffering he went through in two years, because when someone is sick in Baker Street and John is there to witness it, there is no amount of metaphorical apples to keep him away.

But oh, how he wished no one knew about those scars. What was he thinking, running out in the wind and rain like that?! How stupid. Still...it wasn't like him to be thoughtless like that. Maybe...there was something more to all this useless caring?

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, fixated on the light above him. He didn't need to take a bath, not really. And even if he did need to clean himself up it would have been a shower instead. The bath was an excuse, if anything. So much was happening and changing. Mary was due any month, Moriarty was still skulking around somewhere like the filth of a human being he was, and he...well, he had killed a man in cold blood. And it seemed the only one who ever remained bolted to the ground, no matter what, was John. John was always there to keep people level headed. It's what he did best.

With one last sigh Sherlock pulled himself out out of the tub graciously, immediately reaching for the white towel hanging on the door hook and wrapped himself around it. The warm fuzziness of the towel encased him. He unplugged the drain in the bathtub and for a moment lingered, no wanting to leave the heavy warmth of the room. So he made a quick dash to his room, the sharp, cold air outside in the hallway burning his lungs. At least most of the heat for the flat funneled into his room. He went to his drawer and pulled a fresh pair of boxers out - the blue ones - and pulled them on. He tossed his towel to the side and curled himself into the clean bedsheets. He hated being so incapable, his body betraying him in such a way, but he supposed it would pass soon.

Rubbing his hands together for extra heat, scraping lightly against the minor burns from saving John that fateful night that hadn't yet healed, he pulled himself tighter, tucking the sheets in around himself, and began to willingly drift. 

Hopefully John would be home soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary pushed the bedroom door open quietly, peeking in. Sherlock was turned over on his side, away from the door. Just as she'd hoped. She walked in, stepping carefully to not disturb any creaking floorboards, carrying a bowl of soup in her free hand. She set it down on his night table and sat carefully on the edge of his bed. 

She wondered how he felt about her. After everything she had done, and all she had put John through. It was so clear to her how much he cared about John - he put himself in harms way because he thought John was in danger - he may not love him, but he certainly loved him, in that wonderful way. She knew he would never admit it, but they both saw it and both decided against saying anything to John about it.

She supposed he liked her well enough to pull that dumb prank on John. Looking back now it was not so tame; faking an brutal argument between her and Sherlock. It was quite rude, really, after everything that had happened. When John came back from his walk, to cool himself off after finding out the truth, just before the rain started, she had reminded him that he fell in love with a psychopath and roomed with another; surely, he couldn't expect anything less. He just huffed at her, not wanting to fight about it. She felt terrible, and she hoped that this whole 'Sherlock was sick' thing would distract him from their horrid prank.

They really did like each other, they did. But whenever they were together she couldn't help but feel a distinct air about him. He liked being around another sociopath but he was not willing to trust her, not completely. 

It's not like she could blame him, really. So she hoped to gain his trust somehow.

She reached her hand out to knudge him awake, just a little. But she withdrew it. She would be better off letting him sleep. She just wanted to make sure he got his soup - John had really added a unique touch to it. Secretly, he loved to cook. She wondered if Sherlock knew that. 

Carefully she stood, taking another long look at the sleeping detective. She backed out, quietly on her toes. Before closing the door she whispered - even though he probably wouldn't hear her - 

"...Get better, Sherlock. I'm sorry about scaring you."

\--

As his bedroom door closed with a klink, Sherlock turned over in bed, staring at the door. He simply sat up, shifted over with some effort, and grabbed up the bowl of soup.

Ah, John had seasoned it. He loved it that way, but would never tell.


End file.
